Strive
by vargrimar
Summary: Symmetra is perfect, and Junkrat isn't going to argue. Sweet self-indulgence. Junkrat/Symmetra.


"Fuck, you feel good."

Satya has guided the tip of his cock flush against her. Her breaths are soft, shallow, and she stares at him with brimming heat. Her black hair has been undone, and it pours down her back and by her shoulders in thick waves. One hand steadies herself against his hip while the other presses him up between her legs; wetness slathers the end of him and it wrenches need through his veins.

"Nervous," he says, sliding his good hand up her thigh. It's not a question because he already knows the answer. He's nervous, too.

Satya only nods. It's almost strange to think of her as Satya and not Symmetra, but he's not complaining. He likes the sound of her name. It rolls off his tongue in delightful ways and lets him breathe it in her ear when he's close.

"S'all right." He gazes at her from his place among the pillows, marveling at how gorgeous she is. Nothing but slick sweat and glowing skin and the heady gaze of her eyes; she's sweet, hot, molten, and he doesn't know how he's lasted this bloody long. "Don't have to have it all in one go, y'know. Made a bit of a leap tonight as it is."

"I am well aware." She draws in a sharp inhale, her breasts soft and full by her ribs. "This is my decision. I stand by it."

"Right, then. All you, love." He leans back against the sheets, tracing patterns with metal fingers on her thigh while he slopes up to her hip with his left.

When she sinks down, it's agonizingly slow.

Jamison bites down into the flesh of his tongue. The sheer warmth engulfing him is overwhelming, and the tight, clenching movements don't help. She's so wet, so _incredibly_ wet, and the visceral shard of him wants to grip her by her fantastic hips and shove her down, but he doesn't. Instead, he groans in the depths of his throat and drags his fingers down the small of her back and _breathes_.

It takes her a minute or two to settle. She presses her hands against his lower belly, soft skin and hard metal, and her concentration seems to be particularly punishing. He starts to think something might be wrong, and so he reaches up and ghosts the pads of his fingers across her cheek.

"Oi," he says. "How's it?"

"A… a lot, actually." Her teeth run along her lower lip, something sly tugging at the corner of her mouth. "A lot to take in."

Jamison can't help it: he laughs. It's one of those all-consuming, full-body laughs, one that renders him incapable of anything but hyenalike howling. It's one that she joins wholeheartedly, unabashed and giggling as she sits perched upon him, and the rhythmic squeezing from her inner muscles have him gasping and in tears and so very hard.

"Can't—can't tell if that's all puns or if there's a lick of truth somewhere," he manages, dabbing the wetness from his eyes with the inside of his wrist.

"Both." There is no doubt: she's smiling, and it's magnificent.

Satya leans down, her palms smoothing over the plane of his chest. They settle on his shoulders as her breasts cover his ribs, and she places a small kiss on his chin. It's almost too chaste to comprehend; he's in a weird place of pleasure and awkward words and he can't believe this woman just told him a joke about the size of his cock and meant _both_ sides of the double entendre.

"You're perfect," he says.

"Mm, I strive for it," she replies.

With a thumb and forefinger, he shapes the line of her jaw and draws her close. The heat of her skin is addicting and he can feel the knotted cadence of her pulse somewhere beneath his lifelines. Her eyes regard him with a mischievous sort of lust, and as she clenches down beneath, he decides he needs to see her orgasm in all of her perfect glory.

Jamison kisses her, something fierce and biting yet woefully brief. He relishes the feeling of her weight atop him, the warmth of her skin, the slick heat squeezing the length of his cock, and the quiet sounds of her breaths. He grins against the curves of her lips and rolls his hips upward, plunging in the inch or two she'd slipped, and the gripping sigh that spills from her mouth is searing fire.

"We got a lot of striving to do, then," he says.

"Why is that," she replies, a whisper against his teeth.

Another punctuated grind of his hips. She trembles in a paroxysm beneath his metal hand and he's never seen anything so beautiful.

"Oh, you know why," he says, and presses in another kiss. "'Cause practice makes _perfect_."


End file.
